“We’ve released the names of the people who died,” one of the female officers said. Suddenly I recognized her from around the vet office, though I couldn’t remember her name; she had a beagle mix named Dixie. “Maybe you could go and interview people about that?”

“Maybe I could,” I said with what I imagined to be the right level of journalistic world-weariness. “But in the meantime, please tell me: How many people died?”

“The entire Carter family,” the woman responded as I found a blank page in my notebook. “I’m sure you guessed that, given that the tank was right next to their home.”

“I’m not in the business of guessing, but thank you for the information,” I said curtly.

“It was against code,” she added.

“Angela,” Erickson said.

“What?” she replied. “Anyone who knows building codes knows it was too close to the house.”

Boy, this woman was a cold piece of work. Maybe that’s what you needed to become a cop these days, but jeez …

“Right,” I said, “and propane tanks just blow up without explanation and incinerate homes every day.”

“That’s not necessary,” Erickson said. “This is a great tragedy for our community.”

“I agree,” I said.

It made me sick to think about the poor Carters. There were four kids: an eleven-year-old, a thirteen-year-old, an eighteen-year-old, and … “Was Julie Carter away at college?”

Officer Erickson shook his head and bit his lip. “No. She was home, too.”

The other female officer, who had been quiet, spoke up. “We haven’t been able to identify the bodies, though. You saw the house. It’s just … gone, along with everything and everyone in it.”

“Why aren’t you down there right now, then?” I asked. “Wouldn’t this kind of disaster demand a huge cleanup and an effort to recover any remains?”

“The military took over the investigation,” Angela said. “Sheriff Byrnes is down there, but the army can bring in a hundred soldiers to sort through the debris. Technically, this whole town is under martial law.”

“Martial law?” Wait. Yes, there were a lot of soldiers around, but martial law sounded a lot more ominous, something related to dictatorships. The cops looked at one another.

“Okay,” Erickson said, “technically we’re not under martial law. Unofficially, well, I leave it to you as a hardworking journalist to see who’s calling the shots.” He smirked a bit, but I didn’t feel like it was aimed at me as much as the situation.

“So what about the Allens?” I asked.

“They’re good, thanks to you,” Angela said. “We heard about what you and that Conners kid did out there. Shame about the Moores.”

“Did you find their remains?”

Erickson shook his head slowly. “Again, the soldiers are investigating. We’re on the sidelines.”

I scribbled something on my pad to give the impression I was taking studious notes. “Okay,” I said as if trying to get it all down. “And what’s the deal with the Sentinel? I went by there before coming here, and it—”